The Hellion Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 2)

Samuel Grayson managed it, not without some difficulty, for the woman in question was being helped down from her mare by a white man, and she'd just shown a glimpse of silk-covered ankle. To render men slavering idiots with an ankle made Ryder shake his head. He'd seen so many female ankles in his day, so many female legs and female thighs, and everything else female, that he by far preferred an umbrella to protect him from the relentless sun than seeing anything the woman had to offer.

"And don't call me master. Ryder will do just fine."

Grayson nodded, his eyes still on the Vision. "I don't understand," he said more to himself than to Ryder as he walked to two horses, docilely standing, heads lowered, held by two small black boys. "You see her, you see how exquisitely beautiful she is, and yet you are not interested."

"She is a woman, Grayson, nothing more, nothing less. Let's go now."

When Grayson produced a hat for Ryder, he thought he'd weep for joy. He couldn't imagine riding far in this heat. "Is it always this unmerci­fully hot?"

"It's summer. It's always intolerable in the sum­mer here," said Grayson. "We only ride, Ryder. As you'll see, the roads here are well nigh impassable for a carriage. Yes, all gentlemen ride. Many ladies as well."

Grayson sat his gray cob quite comfortably, Ryder saw, as he mounted his own black gelding, a huge brute with a mean eye.

"It's nearly an hour's ride to the plantation. But the road west curves very close to the water and there will be a breeze. Also the great house is set upon a rise, and thus catches any breezes and winds that might be up, and in the shade it is always bear­able, even in the summer."

"Good," Ryder said and clamped the wide-brimmed leather hat down on his head. "You can tell me what's been happening that disturbs you so much."

And Grayson talked and talked. He spoke of strange blue and yellow smoke that threaded sky­ward like a snake and fires that glowed white and an odd green, and moans and groans and smells that came from hell itself, sulfurous odors that announced the arrival of the devil himself, waiting to attack, it was just a matter of time. And just the week before there'd been a fire set to a shed near to the great house. His son, Emile, and all the house slaves had managed to douse the flames before there'd been much damage. Then just three days before a tree had fallen and very nearly landed on the veranda roof. The tree had been very sturdy.

"I don't suppose there were saw marks on the tree?"

"No," said Mr. Grayson firmly. "My son looked closely. It was the work of the supernatural. Even he was forced to cease going against what I said." Grayson drew a very deep breath. "One of the slaves swore he saw the great green serpent."

"Excuse me?"

"The great green serpent. It symbolizes their pri­mary deity."

"Whose primary deity?"

Grayson actually looked shocked. "One forgets; that Englishmen don't know about these things. Why, I'm speaking of voodoo, of course."

"Ah, so you believe all this the work of the super­natural then?"

"I am a white man. However, I have lived in Jamaica for many years. I have seen things that would make no sense in a white world, perhaps things that could not exist in a white world, But the strangeness of the things happening, sir, it gives way to doubts."

Ryder had no more belief in the supernatural than he had in the honesty of a gaming hell owner. When Grayson paused, Ryder was frowning. ''For­give me, but I have no doubts. Simply mixing certain chemicals would produce the smoke and the strange-colored flames. It is a flesh and blood man, no great green serpent behind this. The question we must answer is why and who. Yes, who would do this?"

But Grayson clearly was not convinced. "There is another thing, Ryder. After the French Revolution, there was a revolt on Haiti led by a man named Dessalines. He butchered all the whites and forced many priests and priestesses of voodoo to leave Haiti. These people are powerful; they spread throughout the West Indies, even into America itself, and with them they took their demons."

Ryder wanted to laugh, but he didn't. It was obvi­ous that Grayson felt strongly about this voodoo nonsense. And Grayson was right about one thing: a white man couldn't accept such things as being real, particularly not if he'd lived his entire life in England. He said, "We will see soon enough, I imag­ine. Ah, I didn't know you had a son."

Grayson puffed up like a proud rooster then he fidgeted with his light gray gloves. "He is a good boy, sir, and he does a lot for me—for the Sherbrookes— now that I am getting on in years. He is waiting for us at Kimberly Hall. He didn't wish to leave the plantation house unprotected."

They passed dozens more children, all of them ragged, all of them black, children of the slaves working in the fields, but these children were silent at the sight of the two white men riding in their midst.

Grayson said, pointing to the right and to the left of the narrow rutted road, "We are in the mangrove swamps now. Take care whenever you ride this way for crocodiles come out of the swamps and many times appear like fat logs lying across the road. They will normally eschew the presence of humans, but there have been stories where they didn't, very unpleasant stories."

Crocodiles! Ryder shook his head, but he kept one eye on the sides of the road. The smell of the fetid swamp water was nearly overpowering. He urged his horse forward. There came a flat stretch, the Caribbean on their left and field after field of sugar­cane on their right, even climbing the hills that lay in the distance. And there were goats everywhere, sitting on low stone fences, chewing at flowers left on graves in the church cemeteries. There were egrets sitting on the backs of cattle, cleaning them of ticks, Ryder knew. And there were black men, tall, their bare upper bodies oily with sweat, working in the sugar fields, wearing only coarse trousers made of stout osnaburg. They didn't seem to notice the heat, their rhythm steady, as they plowed or pulled weeds or dug deeper trenches between the sugar plant rows. And there were women as well, their heads covered with bright bandannas, bending and straightening like the men in a steady rhythm. Not far away sat a white man on a horse, an overseer, sitting under a lone poinciana tree, its feathery, fernlike leaves shimmering in the sunlight, to see they didn't slack off. The whip in his left hand ensured their continued work.

It was utterly foreign to Ryder. It was exotic, too, with the thick, sweet smell of the frangipani trees that were thick alongside the dirt road, and the startling blue of the water coming into sight at unex­pected moments. He was pleased he'd done reading on the voyage here. He wasn't completely ignorant of the local flora and fauna. But he hadn't read about any damned crocodiles.

"We are nearing Camille Hall," Grayson said sud­denly, his voice falling nearly to a whisper.

Ryder raised an eyebrow.

"It's her home, sir. Sophia Stanton-Greville's home. She lives there with her uncle and her younger brother. There is one plantation between Camille Hall and Kimberly Hall, but as I under­stand it, her uncle is soon to buy it and thus add substantially to his holdings."

"Who is the owner?"